Archives for March 2013

With technology so advanced, we need a new set of standards around what is considered cheating. It used to be pretty basic: penetrate (male) or be penetrated (female), and you’re cheating. Now we have gray areas–or perhaps light pink–because we have goodies like cell phones and Facebook. Well, don’t stress, my sweet. You and your better or worse half will never agree on this, so allow me to be the judge.

Scenarios:

Woman catches man masturbating. My ruling here depends on what he is masturbating to. If it’s porn, it’s not cheating. If it’s gay male porn, it’s still not cheating, but you might want to invest in a strap on to liven up your bedroom. If it’s any show on the Cartoon Channel, run. If it’s to porn on the computer, it’s not cheating, unless the porn features him and one of your bridesmaids. If he is having Skype sex with someone else, that’s a misdemeanor. If he’s spanking away while watching the neighbor through binoculars, it’s not technically cheating, but where there’s smoke, there’s your neighbor getting skewered by your husband.

Man catches woman with vibrator. Not cheating … period. I don’t care what color, size, or shape the vibrator is; all is well. I don’t even care in which orifice it resides. In fact, even if another woman is holding the vibrator, it’s not cheating. However…

Man catches woman with remote controlled vibrator, some other man is holding the remote. Unless he’s a physician, it’s cheating. I’ll consider it a minor offense if he’s a DJ or in a different room, with the door shut.

Woman catches man pounding away at a love doll. My, my, my. Well, who is the doll? If it’s modeled after wifey, no harm, no foul. If it’s a porn star, he gets a pass as well because, face it, he ain’t getting any porn star quality fuckin’ anytime soon. If the love doll is actually a cabbage patch kid or a bear, make an appointment with your therapist.

Man catches woman with nude photo of ex-boyfriend’s immense meat missile. Depends on what she’s doing with said photo. If she’s paddling the pink canoe to it, that’s a flagrant foul. If she’s showing her friends, it’s a minor infraction, unless she laments about parts of her love cave currently being left unexplored due to your inadequate equipment.

Woman catches man getting a happy ending from his masseuse/masseur. That’s cheating, unless the woman gives him an advance pass because she’s tired of his nagging. Still, if the professional is using anything except latex gloves and lube (such as mouth, feet, or anus), it is cheating.

Man catches woman with vegetables. No, I am not referring to a side plate of broccoli. You know what I mean, you naughty little farmer girl. If the woman is caught green-handed with any of the following being inserted into her most delicious of areas, it is not cheating, unless during Lent: Italian squash, zucchini, cucumber, yam, ginger root, or (heavens) eggplant.

Woman catches man poking another woman with something inanimate. If he’s poking her in the vag or hiney, it could be cheating. This, again, depends on what he’s poking her with. If it’s a dildo, it’s cheating. If it’s a stick, more than three feet in length, he gets a pass. If it’s a licorice rope, all is well unless he eats the rope. In related cases, some more liberal judges have permitted toe fucking. I says that’s gross, and will deem it cheating if for no other reason than to avoid getting toe fungus on my tongue. How would one explain that? My point exactly.

Seems most arguments recently have been derailed by the term “slippery slope.” For instance, some argue that if same sex marriage were supported, it would be dangerous move down a slippery slope. These slidiots use this “logic” to suggest man might then decide to marry out of species. (Must admit I’ve had my eye on a sexy otter.) Worse yet, man may decide to marry inanimate objects such as a soufflé. Frightening, unless blueberry. I would marry bacon, if I could. I love bacon. *sigh*

“What will happen when everyone decides to marry same sex? That would be the end of human species.”

Would it? Doubtful. Women would still have children. Impregnation would certainly be less enjoyable for most, but no less possible. Men would become less useful. Their numbers would be drastically reduced, and urinals will be converted into planters. The species would be just fine.

This is where we sure could use some divine intervention. God should part the clouds, and set us straight (or gay, or both).

“Hey, dickheads. Stop wasting time with this nonsense. It’s a fucking preference. If a man prefers a man, why does that affect you any more than a man who prefers his martini shaken? If a woman prefers a woman, what man could argue with her logic? Men are ghastly. I should know. Yet, we are pretty handy with weed whackers and plagues (my specialty). So, case settled. Whoever wants to get married, gets married, as long as both parties are entering the union voluntarily and with a blood alcohol saturation under .10 when they sign the license. This means more parties, more lovely legs of bridesmaids, and more ways to figure out who your true friends are (based on gift selection). Sure, there are drawbacks, but we can get past the candy-coated almonds, can’t we? Suck on them; don’t chew them or you’ll break a crown. Yes, I know you’re tired of hearing Bob Seger and KC. Few gay weddings will have those. Get hip with Tegan and Sara, while Uncle Joe marries his plumber, Francis. I have two words for you, friends: open bar. Right? I know! What’s better than an open bar? One with twin, topless, lesbian bartenders and Black Bushmills, perhaps. I’m tired of being called upon only when people are dying or fucking. I want to attend more weddings. So, Supreme Court, while you can’t hurry love, you certainly can facilitate it by doubling everyone’s marital options. Oh, and while you’re wasting time telling people who to love, your planet is melting. You might want to check on it, or start building another ark. I suggest you avoid Carnival Cruise Lines for that, unless you want a shitty trip. Carry on.”

As I crest the mountain of life, I find my brothers loading up on all sorts of substances to keep them on the fun side of the hill. Little blue bills used to be the craze. Now, it’s testosterone cream. Not only are my programs interrupted by erection toting blue hairs, now my friends are extolling the benefits coming from a few dabs of wonder goo.

Mom always told me to make a list, because it helps with the decision process. Here’s a list of things I expect to achieve after slathering on the man jelly:

Less forehead.

Proper tenting of morning sheets.

Orgasm number two (puff of dust doesn’t count) within sixty minutes of orgasm number one, which was an epic semen geyser.

Hit a baseball out of the infield.

A place to keep my new pet parrot.

Reactions I expect to hear:

“Ouch.”

“If you haven’t yet, would you mind coming soon before you knock my uterus loose?”

“Where have you been hiding that thing?”

“Where did you get that snake? Roto Cooter?”

“Mommy, look at the giraffe.”

I’m worried the increase in testosterone will make me do some crazy things, like wear a tool belt and drink Budweiser. I doubt I’d be able to concentrate while writing. My emails, status updates, and tweets would be overrun by sexual overtones and swear words–I mean, more so than usual. My interactions with members of the service industry would become precarious. Heck, a simple bank deposit could turn into an adventure.

“Hello, Mr. Torcivia. What can I do for you today?”

“I’d like to make a fucking deposit. Sorry. I like fucking. Sorry. Wow, look at my cock. Wait. No. Don’t. Just take my word for it. Tits. I want to see tits. You don’t have tits. Fuck. Sorry, dude. So, anyway, can I put this huge fucking cock–check, into one of your sluts–ugh, slots? Jesus. Yes, I ejaculated–I mean, endorsed it. Thank you. Where are all the single ladies? Ah, not here. Shit. Yes, I want a fucking receipt. Give it to me, baby. Sorry again. I’m a not-so-hot, yet stiff-as-hell mess. You see, I took this cream. I so want to cream all over a huge set of knockers right now. OK, I’m leaving. Please, don’t press that clit–ugh, button. Bye.”

Considering how much time people spend with their noses in their phones, there’s a need for time-saving tips. Most of the texting nowadays is done one-handed, with a thumb. I don’t know about you, but my thumb hits the right letter about fifty percent of the time. The longer the response, the greater the chance I’ll be fucked by auto-correct or annoying a line of cars behind me as I swerve. Hence, the best solution is to come up with abbreviations to save errant strokes. Heck, you wouldn’t type “laughing out loud,” would you? Nope. A simple “LOL” suffices.

Here are abbreviations I suggest women put to use immediately, before neck cramps set in:

YNGLTSSB – You’re not getting laid tonight so stop begging.

WDWCFHO – Where do wide-cocked firemen hang out?

NMW – Need more wine.

VIC – Vegas is calling.

WFHWYV – Wouldn’t fuck him with your vagina.

SAWFTPW – She’s a whore from the planet Whoretopia.

IDFAGL – I’m due for a good licking.

CBNML – Cute bartender needs my lovin’.

OGSIME – Ouch! Got sperm in my eye.

ROTFLMAO – Rapper on the floor licking my ass out.

Men also struggle to text while driving, grocery shopping, running on the treadmill, and watching the big game (which was so rudely interrupted). There’s also the case when the man is hiding his phone beneath the table, trying to respond to option B while option A sits across from him. This is doubly dangerous. Blind texting may result in much embarrassment. Men should consider using this handy list of abbreviations:

FFBMC – Fat friend blocking my cock.

ETA – Exposed thong alert.

HT@6 – Huge titties at six o’clock. (Feel free to use numbers one through twelve, and TTAN means teeny titties, all nipple.)

XSM – Ex stalking me.

FOWNPYI – Friend of wife needs penis. You’re in.

WOWHMBJG – Where or where have my blowjobs gone? (You may add, WOWCTB, for emphasis.)

RFDJPIH – Real fucking drunk. Just peed in hamper.

BIG – Beer is good.

SHEA – Server has epic ass.

ROTFLMAO – Resting on the front lawn, must avoid old-lady.

If you become skilled at using these abbreviations, you could join the big leagues, such as the NFL (notes formerly long) or NBA (nothing but abbreviations). If you’re feeling edgy, you could join the UFC (ultimate finger conversation) league and practice MMA (many more abbreviations).

The same applies to your spouse. You don’t really want to get rid of him, do you? He’s a decent fellow. Sure, he has some flaws. Who doesn’t? Luckily, you’ve learned how he operates. Being a man, as well as former spouse, I must admit to dancing on the end of strings occasionally. Although my strings are long gone, I watch lovely puppeteers make their men move. Last night one worded it masterfully, as she devised a plan to join the next girls’ night out.

“I’ll fuck my way there.”

“Fascinating.”

“Plus, I’m a bit horny anyway.”

“And, I’m a bit intrigued.”

“Oh, come on. We do the same with pets and children, don’t we? Dangle the reward to get what we want.”

Sexual currency is quite precious, but frequently devalued when presented to the woman. Sad.

“Honey, how about I give you a good beefin’, then you let me join my bros for UFC fight night this weekend?”

“How about you fix the garage door, paint Josh’s room, hire a new gardener, and then I’ll consider it?”

“I’ll throw in a ten-minute foot rub.”

“You’re picking up dinner from PF Chang’s, and folding the laundry. Oh, and don’t forget to pick Josh up from soccer at six.”

“Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“Yes, Mr. Stewart, you have.”

“I think we should go shopping tonight. How about a few laps around the outlets? I hear BCBG is having a sale.”

“Now we’re talking. Tell you what–we can turn this into an exercise of efficiency. You pick up dinner and Josh while I go shopping. We’ll eat, I’ll model my new blouse, and allow you to make love to me. If you ring my bell, you’ll be free to go.”

Have you heard of “The 12 Steps to Intimacy,” which came from Intimate Behavior: A Zoologist’s Classic Study of Human Intimacy by Desmond Morris? This definitive guide from sight to wet spots was published in 1971, and it begs for an update. Think how things have changed since Rod Stewart sang about some sleepy tranny named Maggie. Social media at that time (whisper down the school bus) had it that Rod recorded the song, amazingly, with a belly full of man juice. Myth, I say. Anyway, here’s the original list:

True, but it’s also important to know how you got here, so you know what to avoid. For example, if you’re on a bit of a sexual blue funk, that next martini is likely to get you closer to doing something regrettable. Make sure nobody sees you. Let’s hope your slump-buster has enough common sense to not tag you in a picture from the hotel.

If where you are today is curbside with your luggage because you’ve been booted (a la Lindsay from The Bachelor), you definitely should heed the advice and have convenient amnesia. Don’t play the silly woe-is-me game like Lindsay did.

“I don’t want to be left all alone. I want to grow old with someone.”

Really? That’s what you’re afraid of? Let’s see–you’re tiny, smart, gorgeous, funny, and twenty-fucking-four. Millions of men watched you be cute while ole hairless chest hopped from hole to hole like a handsome blond bunny. You enjoyed two months of significant TV exposure. Suffice it to say that you’ll have a few (thousand) more opportunities than the average gal.

It’s not important that you are posted up solo on a curb. It’s where you are headed, which means a virtual jungle of hungry wolves you’re going to have the displeasure of weeding from your luscious garden. Think of the average female fan, sitting in the tell-all audience. You know the options she has? The guy who’s in town for a conference, who insists he’s single and rich. The ex-boyfriend who keeps showing up drunk on her doorstep. The guy from work who looks at her that way, although he’s thirty years her senior. The man she just had to meet, according to her friend. He was quite a treat considering he lived with his parents, had enough nose hair to weave an afghan, and suggested they split the tab.

No, Lindsay won’t need to worry about dating the average ding-dong. She’ll not need to dim the lights, hold her nose, dress him in black, attend beer softball games, camp out at NASCAR races, or bear any of the typical nonsense suffered by low-exposure women. Not Lindsay. She has probably been solicited by Kobe and dozens of other celebrities–both married and single–since the public dumping. Not only will she avoid loneliness, she’ll crave serenity.

Ladies, don’t be sad when that seat next to you is vacant. That’s a good thing. Vacancy equals opportunity. That extra seat, while waiting to host the firm buns of Mr. Next, can be re-purposed for storing purses, shoes, and fine bottles of wine not wasted on an unappreciative, hairy man-monkey. You may also store containers of dark chocolate nonpareils, plates of warm brie with garlic pita chips, and buckets of truffle popcorn. In extreme cases, you can teach a pooch to sit there (quietly, please).

Some of my lovely lady friends may need a little manology refresher. Lesson #1: Men will say whatever needs to be said to have sex with you. Lesson #1b: Ejaculation causes amnesia.

On this week’s The Bachelor: Women Tell All, Sean is confronted and caught in a lie. AshLee insists he claimed to have no feelings for the other two women, and that she was the one he would choose. Four days later, he casts her away like a gum wrapper.

Naturally, the folks at ABC can’t plant cameras behind the closed doors of the overnight, fantasy suite dates. (If they did, it certainly would improve the ratings.) Yet, having been through a few overnights, I have a good idea how the conversation went.

“Aw. You’re incredible, AshLee.” (I wish that hairless, giant toe-head would learn that describing someone as incredible is not a fucking compliment.)

“Do you have an extra pair of boxers and T-shirt I can wear to bed?”

“Ha, ha. Won’t need those, silly.”

“What? Look, you’re very sexy, but I’m not that kind of girl.”

“If you say so. It’s fine. We don’t need to have sex. I’m sure the other two ladies don’t have intentions of having sex on our sleepovers either.”

“You’d have sex with them?”

“I don’t know. I guess if it feels right, anything can happen. Still, you’re the one I’m most attracted to by far. I’ll try to behave, but it has been a while, you know?”

“Making love with you would be amazing, Sean, but maybe we should wait until after the show. It’s only another week.”

“Absolutely. Heck, I don’t need to have sex with a woman before I propose marriage to her in front of millions. There are never any incompatibilities that arise. It’s fine. Let’s get to bed and rest up. I have two more overnights, and a lot of decisions to make.”

“AshLee, you’re the one for me. I don’t have strong feelings for the others.”

“I’m just worried that you’re telling me all of this so I give in, then you’ll leave me curbside like my parents did. Sorry. I have this abandonment thing.”

“I’m a gentleman, AshLee. I’m not that kind of guy. You have nothing to worry about. You’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

“I love you so much.”

Roll forward through the cuddling, kissing, fondling, mounting, and after-splat. Her fear materializes into a leaky-eyed limo ride. She confronts Sean. He nervously denies everything. She’s hurt and confused, hoping he dumped her for non-sexual reasons that arose after their overnight. Professor Phil insists he ditched her because sex with the other two was better, and it’s likely he knew she was gone before the overnight, but he was in the rare position to take advantage of a lovely specimen with no price to pay.

The moral, ladies, is a man will say what needs to be said, and do what needs to be done in order to mate with reluctant prey. Then, he’ll deny or forget it all. Best to take control with these five little words:

It’s alarming and confusing to me that so many women go back to the exes they’ve sworn off. It’s a habit–possibly a bigger addiction than smoking, and potentially as dangerous. There should be a one-rebound limit to relationships because it is absolutely masochistic to continue going back for more pain. I’ve had this discussion with the recently parted many times; it almost always ends the same way.

“Hey there. Where’s your boo?”

“Oh, that asshole? I broke up with him. I’m over it. He’s such a jerk. He’s constantly drunk and treating me like shit. I’m done with him.”

“Bet you’re not.”

“Done, I tell you. You should see the text messages he sent me, calling me names and putting me down. I can’t believe I wasted so much time with him.”

“So, this is probably the fifth or sixth time you’ve split, right?”

“This time it’s for good.”

“Last time it was for good.”

“No, this time it’s real. I’ve moved on. He’s out of my life.”

“Have you unfriended, blocked, and deleted all of his contact info?”

“Um, not yet, but I will.”

“Right.”

“Seriously. He’s horrible. I want nothing to do with him.”

“What if he claims to have changed, promises to treat you better, and begs for another chance?”

“No way.”

“Yes, way.”

“He won’t do that anyway.”

“He most certainly will. Just wait until he has an empty arm and busy liver around midnight. You’ll get the text.”

“I’ll ignore it.”

“Then he’ll send another. Maybe he’ll email you a poem, lyrics, or a song video of some sad dude singing about how he lost his soul mate. You’ll probably find flowers on your doorstep. Whatever it takes to bring back his emotional punching bag.”

“Doubtful.”

“Likely.”

Naturally, a few weeks pass, then while parked at my usual bar corner, I see the unhappy couple–united as predicted. She’s too embarrassed to say a word to me, because she can’t justify taking him back to herself, let alone a jaded fool like me. Eventually, she faces me. Her shame is hard to hide.

“Ah, I see all is well in paradise again.”

“He’s totally changed.”

“Not even a little.”

“This is his last chance. I warned him: One slip-up and we’re done for good.”

“You mean ten slip-ups, and you’re done for a week or so. You’d make a horrible judge.”

“He’s sobering up, and treating me right.”

“Good. Let’s see how long he can carry out the charade.”

“Maybe it’s for real. Maybe he realized what he lost, and knows he needs to treat me right or lose me forever.”

“All right. I’ll see you in a few weeks, after he can no longer wear the emotional disguise, and we can discuss his assholeness once again.”

“We might surprise you.”

“Hey, it’s your life, sugar. When you find where you’ve left your self-esteem, you’ll realize how silly this is.”

I went through my usual morning routine of flaked tuna serving and hot coffee ingesting, followed by clicking, reading, responding, and deleting. If I don’t look away from the screen regularly, everything other than my electronic life fades. So, I stare out my window and watch the busy worker bees at my neighbor’s home. This is one of those neighbors who needs to have some sort of project running at all times–paint this, plant that, stain this, clean that. Then, I notice the men in spotted white shirts drop their brushes and jaws.

Isn’t it funny how, when we notice someone distracted, it distracts us? We don’t want to miss out on it. There are times when I instinctively reach for my phone, in case there’s something potentially viral happening.

The distraction in this case, as typical, was a woman. She wore a tight white top, light blue yoga pants, a cap, and earbuds as she power-walked through my neighborhood. I doubt the workers distracted her. She certainly didn’t notice me gawking at her from behind glass. Yet, in that ten or so seconds, we four men all went though an assortment of futile fantasies.

Maybe she’ll lift up her top and flash me.

Maybe she’s famous.

Maybe she’ll come ask me if I’d like to have dinner with her.

Maybe she’ll stop, bend over, and re-tie her sneakers.

Maybe she’ll ask to borrow some sugar.

She had, at most, one thought:

I wonder how much this poor owner is paying these swines to drool.

The aggressive male would have made a move. I could have sprinted into my closet, changed into sweats, and chased her down, hoping to have casual conversation which could lead to sweaty post-workout lovemaking. Creepy. Well, unless she’s in need. Nah. Still creepy.

How cool would it be to have a sex buddy in the neighborhood? It happens. I don’t even want to know anything about her personal life. There should be no discussion about boyfriends, parenting skills, or favorite movies. All we need to know about each other is how to get to orgasm. Nice! OK, not really. Creepy.

This shit must happen somewhere other than on television–the chance meeting, the connection, the lust, the impossibility of it all, the elation, the reality, the separation, the sadness, the desire, the reunion, etc. It’s so much better than the blind date, awkward conversation, and other turtle-paced moves toward something we all want from the first encounter.

*Ding Dong*

Oh, my fucking Yoda! It couldn’t be.

“Hi, I’m Sara.”

“Well, hello, Sara. I’m Phil.”

“I was walking by and I couldn’t help noticing …”

“I didn’t mean to be staring. I’m sorry. It’s just, you’re so lovely, and such a wonderful vision I don’t typically see outside my office window.”

“Um, thank you. Like I was saying, I couldn’t help noticing your sprinkler head popped off and it’s spraying an arc of water into the street. You might want to shut that off.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll get right on that. Thank you for letting me know. Sorry about the … you know.”